


Sleep It Off

by betp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep It Off

**Author's Note:**

> As demanded, what was once on [Tumblr](http://hoechleberry.tumblr.com/post/43067034829/stiles-thats-dereks-voice-rousing-stiles) is now here.

“Stiles?”

That’s Derek’s voice, rousing Stiles from a NyQuil-induced doze. He squirms, tries to look to it, but he’s unfathomably imprisoned in a mountain of sheets and blankets and duvet. Groaning in a vaguely zombie-like manner, he rustles about. Derek takes a minute to unearth him. Eventually Stiles manages to poke his head out of the mess like a prairie dog.

“Stiles,” Derek says, eyebrows raised, amused.

“Hey,” Stiles attempts to say, but it comes out sounding like an awful croak. “Oh, jesus,” he says, looking down at his chest and gripping his throat. “I’m—is that—oh god—”

“Well, stop _talking_ , then,” Derek says, reaching out to grip his face. “You’re sick?”

Stiles levels him with his most disgruntled expression. “No, I’m a shifter now, too,” he rasps. “I transform into a straw from Burger King. _Yes_ , dumbass, I have the flu. I texted you.”

Derek winces at the grinding sound of his voice. “My phone’s somewhere in the Atlantic, remember? Or do Burger King straws have amnesia?”

“Right, I forgot. I’m the, because of that _skrawk_ noise it makes when you, like,” Stiles begins to explain, but Derek waves his words away.

“Yeah, I got it,” he dismisses. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”

“Figured I’d make sure you weren’t missing out on my unending wit.”

They stare at each other for a little bit, Stiles blinking and squinting and bed-rumpled, and Derek ramrod-straight with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. And it’s kind of a nice moment. That’s the thing about the two of them, is moments that would feasibly be awkward with anyone else are just sort of… _nice_. They both think too much for a moment of silence to drag on too long, even if they’re staring at each other.

“Did you need something,” Stiles begins at the same time as Derek says, “Scoot over.”

“What?” Stiles asks, watching Derek strip out of his jacket and jeans.

“Scoot _over_.” Derek shoves Stiles to the other side of the mattress.

“Are you—what are you doing,” Stiles asks. He’s got about the strength of a sleepy kitten right now, and his attempts to help Derek disentangle him from his bedding are proving fruitless. Eventually Derek just slaps his hands away and does it himself. Then he slides under the blankets and settles against the pillows. Stiles stares blearily at him.

Derek says, “C’mere.” Holds out an arm.

“You—” Stiles gives a huge, gross, snorting sniff. “Are you cuddling me?”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Derek snipes with an eyeroll, and Stiles gingerly shuffles towards him. He feels pretty inadequate, because he’s dizzy and drowsy and his hair’s sticking up on one side and he’s wearing the Twilight t-shirt that Scott bought him as a joke the year he turned sixteen, and Derek is wearing a plain green t-shirt and boxer briefs, and even though he didn’t shave, he looks _sort of_ like a model.

“But I’m literally secreting sludge,” Stiles says vulnerably, and then Derek yanks him down onto his chest. Stiles flops down, grumbles, “Asshole,” while Derek fits his arms around him, pleased that he sounds significantly more foreboding with his voice only capable of achieving the top and bottom of his typical register. He tries to suppress the surge of comfort and relaxation he gets when Derek holds him, encases him in warmth and the stunted scent of Derek. Stiles wishes he could breathe more adeptly through his nose.

Derek pulls the blankets up around them both. Muses, “Well, you can’t get me sick, and I don’t have anything better to do, so there’s no real harm in it.”

“Except my nose might leak on you.”

“I’ve had worse parts of you leak on me before,” counters Derek. Before Stiles can say anything, he adds sharply, “ _I mean your blood_.” He reaches over and grabs the Kleenex box from the bedside table just in case. “What’s wrong with you.”

Stiles twists to look up at his face. “You want a bulleted list of my symptoms, Doc Hale?” Stiles asks cuttingly. Derek stares, unimpressed, so Stiles rolls his eyes, scowls at the wall across the room. “My head hurts,” he says. “My nose is all clogged up. My throat’s swollen. Literally every part of me aches.”

Derek shakes his head, about an inch and a half away from tutting. “I don’t get how humans can deteriorate so quickly and still be the dominant species,” he says, and then hisses and makes a pitiful noise when Stiles digs his knuckles into Derek’s ribs.

“I don’t get _you_ ,” Stiles grouses. “You come in here, _insist_ on snuggles, and then make fun of me for being human.”

“Why would I make fun of you for that? I _like_ that show.”

Stiles punches him again.

“Ow. I’m—stop _hitting_ me, I’m _not making fun of you_. I’m lamenting— _quit_ it, I’m lamenting the fact that your own body has turned against you.”

“Because that’s _never_ happened to a werewolf,” Stiles says, squinting up at Derek again. “Ahem-hem, _Jackson Whittemore_.” The fake clearing of his throat devolves into a coughing fit that Derek rubs his back throughout. Once he can breathe again, Stiles sighs and announces morosely, “I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I am, I’m going to drown in plain air.”

“You’re being weird. Do you have a fever?”

“No, I don’t,” Stiles decides, but Derek tips his head to the side, presses his cheek against Stiles’ skull, and Stiles settles down immediately, soothed.

“You’re _burning_ _up_ ,” Derek tells him. Stiles hums sleepily. “You’re delirious.”

“Sure,” Stiles replies serenely. “You’re cuddlin’ me, I must be _dizzy_ with passionate love for you.”

Derek says, “You should take something for this,” but Stiles just rubs his face into Derek’s chest.

“You’re kind of the best,” he declares, muffled. “You’re holding me, I like that.”

“M’kay,” Derek says facetiously. Scritches Stiles’ scalp with one hand.

Stiles worms ever closer, clings to Derek with both legs and both arms. “M’serious,” he says, and then he says something else that even Derek can’t parse out, face pressed into Derek’s torso like he’s trying to suffocate himself. He’s there for long enough that Derek gets agitated—not _ner_ vous, _a_ gitated, Derek doesn’t _get_ nervous—and yanks him back by the back of his shirt. Stiles gasps, deprived of oxygen. This makes him sneeze three times.

“You are such a moron.” Derek pulls him close again and hands him a Kleenex.

Stiles blows into the tissue, and then, the thing still plastered to his face, says, “Love you,” and Derek looks at him dubiously. “I _mean_ it.” He blows again. “You’re sweet. You're sugar, um, honey. If I could breathe through my nose, I’d suck you off.” He chucks the ruined tissue onto the floor. Adds, “I might anyway,” eying the general area of Derek’s crotch introspectively.

“You already almost asphyxiated just lying here,” Derek protests. “I can’t even think what you’d do to yourself on my dick.”

“It was just a thought,” says Stiles defensively, and he cuddles up to Derek’s side again. “Just trying to salvage Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s fine whether or not you blow me,” Derek promises, and kisses him once, light, chaste. Stiles ruins it by hooking a hand behind Derek’s neck and kissing him deep. Derek makes a noise in his throat and hangs on for dear life. Finally, Stiles breaks the kiss. Settles back looking smugly satisfied. “Y’get that outta your system?” Derek asks roughly.

“Mmm.” Stiles lays his head back down slowly, like a feather drifting down. “Mmyeah. Maybe. Do I smell sick?”

“Like mucus and dextromethorphan,” Derek agrees. “You’ve smelled worse.”

Stiles makes a face like he’s pondering whether or not to be offended by that, and then yawns. “I love you more than lots of things,” he decides. “Sorry I’m sick on Guaranteed Get-Some Day.”

“Mm-hmm.” Derek tucks the blankets in around him. “Go to sleep and maybe when you wake up you’ll get some in the shower.”

A softly triumphant “yes” escapes Stiles, accompanied by a weird little jerk of his loosely clenched fist, before he passes out, and if Derek presses a kiss onto his burning forehead once he’s asleep, it’s to check his temperature, and not for _any other reason_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Nope, it's 'cause he loves him.
> 
> They always say "write what you know," and what I knew on Valentine's Day was being terribly sick and wishing someone (read: Derek) would cuddle me.


End file.
